


A Worthy Son

by snowbryneich



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 08:22:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1681409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowbryneich/pseuds/snowbryneich
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for round two or three of Got_exchange - the prompt wanted something with Jon Connington and Aegon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Worthy Son

Jon Connington had not found life easy with the Golden Company – unlike most of his brothers, who despite the usurper's war were not recent exiles as he was. But that was just as well. _'Life should not be easy for an exile. Nor for one who has failed as I have.'_ Jon needed no reminders. He had the bells for that. And yet he now had a reminder clutched in his hand, and though he should not be so obvious with the parchment, it was of little matter now, he had so mistreated it over his journey to Pentos it was no longer legible. Suspicious of the message, he had crumpled it, tossed it away and dangled it over flame more than once; sure it was lies. It could only be lies. But the slightest chance it was true had him pull back from destroying it. 

And now illegible as it was he knew what it said as clearly as he remembered the epithets Aerys' had spat at him before exiling him. The parchment was his last hope – one he had not thought to find – even if its cyphered message gave him only a glimmer of a possibility. There had been little hope for him in the past years – not since as his failure at the Stoney Sept had been magnified with every victory Robert Baratheon had won. Though none had been more crushing than the news of Rhaegar's death, it had hit Jon hard to hear of the death of the prince and princess. When they lived; Jon had celebrated their births with Rhaegar, even held the small Princess once. But in his mind they had been Elia's children and of little interest to him. After the trident though - then they had been the last of Rhaegar - his blood, his heirs. Slaughtered like pigs to prove Lannister loyalty. If Jon had only steeled himself to have as little honour as Tywin Lannister, he could have put every woman and child to the sword at the Stoney Sept. Then Robert Baratheon would not have lived to end all that Jon held dear. 

Pentos. What could be in Pentos. It shamed Jon that he would respond to the cryptic message without even a name signed to it to justify his faith. It showed his desperation, but to himself, Jon could admit he was desperate. He needed a purpose, a cause, a liege lord. None of these were available to an exile. But now . . . unasked for, and inexplicably, there was hope - or so he had heard. It was not so unexpected, he had told himself, once he had understood the cryptic message promising him a chance to serve a Dragon once more. The Golden Company were near all Westerosi exiles and news of the war had been been sought even by those who were far removed from their ancestry in the Seven Kingdoms. 

Jon knew that Ser Willem Darry had taken the last Targaryens - Rhaegar's young brother and new sister, and fled with them to the free cities - that was known. He mocked the eastern saying even as he thought it. Where in the free cities - that was not known, or Jon may have sought them sooner. He could not fault the secrecy; Darry was no fool. There were nine free cities in which to hide and if it Darry's location was known then Jon would not be the first one there. Jon had heard what the Usurper had said, when he had been shown the bodies of Rhaegar's children. No doubt he would pay well for more dead dragons. He surely did not lack the gold - not with a Lannister for a wife. Darry was doing well to hide the last dragons; secrecy was the only hope of those who would see the restoration of House Targaryen. There was no shame in being practical. And Darry was practical; Jon knew that well. The great bear of a man had been master of arms at the Red Keep when Jon and his silver prince were no more than squires. Darry had not liked him then. But Jon had acquitted himself well as a sellsword. Or as well as a sellsword could, some remnant of honour forced to him correct himself dourly. Darry would need men who could fight to protect the last Targaryens. If the great bear of a knight had not liked Jon Connington as a squire, mocking his affection for the Prince before Jon had even known what it was. Jon was willing to chance his dislike - Darry might even blame him for the death of his brother - Ser Jonathor Darry had been sent to rally the remnants of the royal host after Jon's defeat at the Stoney Sept. But the man did not have to like him to have have the sense to know he was loyal. Surely that would matter more – men were fickle and words were wind and those who would stay loyal to an exiled royal house were not in large supply. Darry would give him service – Jon was sure of it. 

Perhaps his surety came from his recklessness in setting out on this journey - Jon had drawn his last pay from the Golden Company before he had set out from Pentos which had caused some argument, revealing as it did that he had little intent to return. He had not cut ties entirely – Myles Toyne had liked him and when Viserys came of age, the company would be needed. But if taking this chance cost Jon his position in the company then he would not mourn it. It was little to lose. If this came to naught he would still think that the chance of a purpose outweighed the possibility of a life as a sellsword. 

It had not improved his temper to arrive in Pentos. Spending three days wandering, plagued by doubts, and to receive only another mysterious note. It directed him to a well appointed but anonymous manse where he spent another two days confined to rooms, refusing wine, slave girls and touching only plain, unspiced food. He did not fear assassins for himself - he had failed the Targaryen dynasty and been in exile before the Usurper won, there would be no hired knives for him. No-one would care enough to kill Jon Connington. That did not mean he was stupid enough to trust his as yet unnamed host. 

But when, five days after his arrival in Pentos, he became aware of who had invited him there he had found himself sorely tempted to violence. Lord Varys had minced into the room, swathed in silk and stinking of perfume. 

“Please,” he had said looking entirely too pleased with himself, “forgive the delay, my lord, you made much better time than we expected.” 

Jon did not know that the Usurper would miss his Master of Whispers. Lord Varys had only caught Aerys' attention because he mistrusted Rhaegar - reason enough to despise the Master of Whispers right there, some dark part of Jon thought at once. But it would surely inconvenience him, and Varys was a traitor who have moved from the service of House Targaryen to House Baratheon, no doubt without a second thought. Those were reasons enough for Jon Connington to end his miserable life right there and then, and it was no difficulty to get a knife to his throat. But even as the point drew blood the eunuch coughed delicately, without a hint of fear and held up another bit of parchment when Jon hesitated. 

"I would hate for you have travelled all this way and never know why, my lord." Jon forced himself to wrench his dagger away with difficulty, bitter disappointment welling up within him. Willem Darry had considered him less than a man for his care for Rhaegar. Darry would have considered Varys less than nothing even if he did not serve Robert Baratheon. He would have no more shared the location of the Targaryen heirs with Varys than he would have handed them over to Robert himself. This was some sort of trick. Jon would hear it out for himself, and then he would cut Varys' throat and make his way back to the Golden Company to resume his purposeless life. 

Varys did not explain himself. It seemed not even a dagger to the throat could coax him to speak plainly but then there was little need; not once he had led Jon through the mance to a balcony overlooking a garden. There, several women were watching over a small boy. The women were of no importance - marked as they were with bronze slave collars - but the child they were guiding through a careful game of maids and monsters caught his attention at once. Though it made no sense, all Jon could think of was Viserys Targaryen - the Prince had been this age when he'd come to bid the King's Hand farewell when he'd rode out to lead the men of the Crownlands into battle. Jon had promised Prince Viserys that he'd slay the Usurper and that his brother would soon be home. Jon did not understand how - he did not understand who the child was, but there was no denying his heritage; the shock of silver hair, the violet eyes marking him as Valyrian. And there was something about the set of his features too - he was Targaryen. Jon knew it, he had known Rhaegar since they were both boys - Viserys Targaryen had bid him farewell the second time he had ridden out of the Red Keep during the war to start his exile - though then he had no words for the Prince who had called him a liar and pitched a temper tantrum that marked him as Aerys' child more than Rhaegar's brother. This child had both their looks. Yet he was far too young to be Viserys – near on five years had passed since Jon had last seen the Prince. If the boy was Targaryen – who was he. A lost Blackfyre? But Varys' next words decried this even as part of Jon could not quite believe it. 

"We have had to keep him hidden, of course, children so often die before they reach a certain age and there was King Robert's wrath to hide from. Yet I cannot think of anyone Prince Rhaegar would rather have trusted his heir too than his Griffin lord." 

Jon started at the words and for a moment he could not breathe. Rhaegar's heir was dead, with his daughter and his sickly Dornish wife. Yet the hope of something of Rhaegar living on, even in his siblings, had brought Jon here and this he could not dismiss. 

"How?" he demanded of Varys. He wanted answers but did not trust himself to speak more than that single word.

“A tanner in Pisswater Bend," Varys said. "He had several sons and a wife dead in the bloody bed. The youngest cost me a jug of Arbor gold. Tanner's from Pisswater Bend do not often taste Arbor gold but they can always have more sons.” Varys smiled wanly. “Princess Elia did not have much trust in Tywin Lannister's sense of mercy. Not for a son . . . girls are more often spared – their claims dismissed or easily disposed of with a prudent marriage. She could not have foreseen. . .” He shook his head and sighed dramatically. “But even if she had the Princess was too old to hide – everyone knew what she looked like – but one fair haired babe looks much like another. Though I am told mother's can tell them apart.” a careless shrug dismissed this foible of women. Jon could not argue against it – he'd never paid the slightest bit attention to any infant. “Of course nobody looks closely once a babes skull has been dashed against a wall." Varys added thoughtfully. “It was a layer of disguise we had not thought to have.” 

Jon shot him a look – he would not be grateful for Clegane's brutality – no matter the outcome. Yet for the moment, he could dismiss that as Varys led him into the garden and called the boy over. 

"Come child," he bid the boy – Aegon, Jon corrected himself mentally. "This is your father, as the Magister and I promised, he has come to claim you." Jon had not expected that. He would have drawn the dagger again and made it clear to the eunuch he would not be mocked. But the child had rushed forward and attached himself to his leg. 

"Father," he exclaimed in the common tongue, oblivious to Jon's incredulous stare. 

He picked the boy up in an attempt to examine him closely, though Aegon - if it were Aegon - took this as a sign of affection and flung his small arms around his neck which made this a difficult proposition. He set the boy on his feet again.

"Stand tall and let me see you," he instructed. The boy obeyed. It seemed Aegon was more well mannered than he'd seemed at first. 

But then a child of that age would be eager for a parent he'd never had, Jon supposed, and wilful too, unless they were raised correctly. Jon had no doubt the boy was Rhaegar's son – he had Rhaella's eyes not as dark as Rhaegar's but something about the set of his jaw and the way his silver hair falls in his face will not let Jon deny who this boy is. Jon wondered for fleetingly if he could allow himself to deny it but the doubt did not last long. This would be his task now. He would take Rhaegar's son and raise him to be the Prince that Rhaegar would have wanted and when Aegon was old enough he would take him back to Westeros and take back the boy's birthright. He was glad then that he had not cut ties entirely with the Golden Company. 

But his planning was cut short by the demanding curiosity of the child. 

“Why didn't you come until now?” the boy piped up, impatience cutting through what manners the six year old had. “Magister Illyrio promised you were coming on my fifth name day. I'm six now.” 

Jon eyed him for a moment. He had none of Rhaegar's melancholy but there was a touch of both Targaryen arrogance and childish uncertainty in the small face that peered up at him waiting for an answer. Arrogance was unseemly but common enough in Princes – uncertainty was not. 

“You were too young,” he told the boy. “I could not take you on campaign. But now you are nearly a man grown.” Aegon beamed with pride at this praise, false though it was. It was no more than most lords told their heirs – in Westeros a boy was near a man grown the instant his father decided. Why not here. 

“I could be your squire,” he said. “Do sellswords have squires? I don't see why not. Even hedge knights have squires.” 

The words struck a cord in Jon. A memory. And with it an idea for how this young prince should be handled. 

When Jon had served in King's Landing - he had ridden to the ruins Summerhall in pursuit of Rhaegar more times than he could count. The tragedy of Summerhall had haunted Rhaegar all his life and Jon knew that Rhaegar had named his son for the King he most admired in his ancestry. Not the conqueror – whom Jon, as a squire, had liked best. But instead, the grandfather who had died on the day of Rhaegar's birth. Aegon V – the King who had squired for a hedge knight, who had known the small folk and of course who had ruled for near thirty years – that was a long reign for a Targaryen. 

“Yes,” he said firmly. “You can be my squire.” It was almost worth it to see the look of horror on Varys' face. 

In the end though the eunuch had been made to see sense. To keep the prince in one place was foolhardy. If Jon Connington was the best person to raise Rhaegar's heir he meant to do it as he saw fit. Jon's victory over the eunuch had not been without concessions though. The lies Varys chose to explain the disappearance of the exiled Lord Connington had caused Jon to rage inside. He had not had to suffer the indignity of hearing the rumours spoken aloud yet and still they filled him with black fury. Perhaps he never would hear them spoken, if Varys was right, and craven, thieving drunkards would soon be forgotten. But for Rhaegar's son Jon Connington would throw away what was left of his honour. For now. The eunuch's part in that, he would not forget. 

Jon rode out of Pentos two days later with his new son, a new name and a blue sheen on both their hair. Varys claimed it hid the purple of the prince's eyes and would give them the resemblance they lacked; and needed. Jon had not argued , though he felt ridiculous – the blue hair did indeed alter Aegon's eyes. But Jon knew – Jon saw the resemblance and always would, no matter how they disguised him. 

\- - - 

The earliest years were the easiest – Griff served as a sellsword, though not in as many campaigns as he might. Shorter campaigns earned him funds that left him less dependant on Varys and his cheesemonger, and kept Griff and his son on the move. He taught Aegon - whom he could never quite think of as Young Griff - arms and archery, and letters and numbers. He came up with stories and songs, because the boy demanded them often enough, and, as they moved from place to place, Griff found himself at ease with the new life. It was a second chance he had not expected. 

Shortly after Aegon turned ten Griff decided to expand their court. A knight did not become proficient practicing with one man and Griff was no longer the young warrior who'd been chosen as Hand for his military renown. He sent to the Golden Company for a young blade and Rolly appeared not long after – Griff took brief affront at the boy's common origins but could not deny his skill. Nor could he send him back without explaining why a commoner did not suit. Myles Toyne knew the secret, but the rest of the company did not. Nor had Jon even considered how he would tell Aegon the truth of who he was. Though the boy was now of an age where he could no doubt keep the secret. Griff knew it would have to be soon, yet still he continued to delay the discussion. 

Once Rolly arrived it seemed their court expanded rapidly. Griff was never soft on Aegon when he trained him. Or in any fashion - the boy had washed and repaired his own clothing, and his father's, he'd carried food and served wine, worked on river boats and done more physical labour than Griff had ever been required to as a squire in the Red Keep. Yet he winced inside to see Rolly knock the boy down, time after time, in their lessons. It was to be expected – pain was a good teacher and Aegon improved with every lesson. This was of course of paramount importance, Aegon's throne could only be won with warfare. The boy had to be able to fight but Griff had to look to the Prince's health as well. Any father would. To gain a Maester he had no choice but to turn to Varys. Griff has had to resign himself to the eunuch's usefulness. The slights and insults that come with this usefulness can be repaid in future. 

Haldon was not a maester, but the links he had forged at the Citadel - History, language, and healing - were the ones that Griff expected a tutor for his son and prince to hold. Aegon was a healthy child – his father's son, in that regard not his mother's - something for which Jon thanked the gods. Yet there there was no sense in not doing all he could, to ensure the young prince remained healthy. It was the Halfmaester who suggested a Septa or Septon should be added to their court, not more than three moons after he arrived. Haldon had figured out who both of them were, of his own accord, which irritated Griff. But perhaps it was as well they had a clever maester. 

He did not interfere with Lemore's lessons – though she was unlike any Septa he had ever known. She knew the _Seven Pointed Star_ well enough, which was more than he did. He was not a pious man, his faith curtailed through the losses he'd sustained. But it was right that a King should be instructed in the doctrines of the faith, so he did not send Lemore away. In truth he preferred that she wass not so pious or proper, though he had no doubt she was devout. It was a good balance; an overly pious King would be a disaster. Rhaegar's son would not become another Baelor the Blessed. He suspected she had too had worked out the truth of who they were, but unlike the Halfmaester, she would never say so nor even hint at it. 

Griff found himself unexpectedly grateful for the solid, uncomplicated Rolly. He was a good man and true. He was fond of the boy he'd come to train, but he would never look past what he had been told, to see a hidden prince. As long as one member of the court remained unaware he could continue to tell himself that the time was not yet right to tell Aegon the truth. It was this gratitude that had lead Griff to knight Rolly, a year after he arrived. It only delayed the inevitable, but Jon had to make the most of it. No doubt he had little time now – the next message from Varys or Illyrio might give it away. Jon had loved Rhaegar, he had mourned Rhaegar. He had never thought that one small word from Aegon could make him jealous of his silver prince. But every time Aegon called out Father, eager to show off his sword play, his archery, his command of high Valyrian, or the latest Westerosi history he had learned, the word made Jon flinch inside. Pride and guilt warred in Jon, as fierce as the ache that the memory of the bells caused him. Another day, another week, another turn of the moon, he told himself. He would tell Aegon then. But for now he would claim him as his own. Just a little longer.


End file.
